


do you hear me when you sleep?

by under_a_linden_tree



Series: under_a_linden_tree's prompt ficlets [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Historical, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), a love confession without any "I love yous", they care for each other but they're also not that good at communication, this is more melancholic than anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: In 1869, Aziraphale finds himself lost - until the road leads him to a half-abandoned house and the demon his heart desires.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: under_a_linden_tree's prompt ficlets [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755112
Comments: 9
Kudos: 31





	do you hear me when you sleep?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orderlyhouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlyhouse/gifts).



> This fic is for orderlyhouse, who kept tossing song recommendations into the chat until I started writing this fic. The title's from "Well I Wonder" by The Smiths. Thank you, friend, I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Thank you to [hestiadragonfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HestiaDragonfly) for the beta-read!

**_London, 1869_ **

Aziraphale was torn in two. If he was honest with himself, he had been cruelly cut in two a long time ago; had spent centuries in pieces, loosely tied together by a string spun of duty and fear, a string that made it so he considered himself complete. Now, however, standing in the rain on Blackfriars Bridge, he felt the ache echoing through him. He felt the devastation of loneliness cutting through him, clawing at the rough edges that had remained unhealed. It was less of a realisation than he would have liked it to be. If he was honest with himself, Crowley had kept a part of him in his open palm for centuries.

The rain was hitting the back of his hands as he stood there, staring out at the dirt grey water. His skin stuck to the wrought iron railing, cold and unforgiving in its adamantine harshness. He could feel the seams under his fingers, the places where it had already been worn off a little from countless workmen’s hands. Ten years had passed since he’d last stood on this bridge, looking out at the water, but there had been a flame within him where now only a spark was left. It had been joy and excitement and fascination. Now, however? Emptiness.

Seven years. They hadn’t spoken in seven years. And while that was not by any means an extraordinary amount of time to pass between their meetings, it was _strange_ , considering the circumstances under which they’d parted, and it hurt. Of course, Aziraphale couldn’t expect Crowley to come running back to him, to apologise for his question and repent. It would be cruel to demand that, to force Crowley into being fine, with himself and with the danger he was in. The fear had been a constant companion throughout their shared history, but Aziraphale had come to understand that while he had accepted it as such long ago, Crowley didn’t have to.

The water beneath the bridge was no holier than Crowley himself, and yet it made him think. It made him remember, and it made him fear. A future in which they were separated, his nightmare come true. A future in which he could never be whole again.

He tore his gaze away from the Thames and let go of the railing, barely even noticing how pale and thin-spread the skin over his knuckles had become. His feet began to carry him away. They were wiser than he was, knowing that he would break a little more if he stayed. Aziraphale followed them, lost in thoughts of his own. He wondered what Crowley would think of the change in the city, if he’d seen it or if he’d left. Perhaps they’d passed each other in the streets, perhaps they hadn’t. And if Crowley had seen him and not spoken to him, would that mean that he didn’t care to set things right between them? Fortune was cruel, splitting luck in halves, too. Or so Aziraphale liked to think, even though he knew that he wouldn’t have been the one to stop them in their tracks and reconciliate on the spot.

Meandering through the streets, he was blind to anything that crossed his path, until a sudden pricking of his skin forced him to look up. He was standing in front of a grey façade, a house that must still have looked rather stately in recent time but had been left to decline for at least a couple of years. The windows were covered in dust and the curtains behind them moth-eaten. The door, too, had taken damage, dented and cut around the lock. Aziraphale knew instinctively that, whether it had been children or thieves or humans of some other sort, they had not been successful entering the house. Something drew him towards that door, to its strange marks and to what lay behind it. And when he closed his eyes for a moment to consider if he would give in to himself, he understood what had brought him here in the first place. He was surprised it hadn’t occurred to him sooner, the low hum of a strange evil, slightly off-kilter, just a step to the left of the invisible line. It was the aura of a demon who had taken a bit of goodness with him.

Aziraphale was an angel. He was supposed to be powerful, to have full control of himself and the ones that surrounded him. He was, however, not supposed to follow the wrong path, to go against what every sense of better judgement would tell him. And yet, he still felt that force, pulling at him, beckoning for him to come in, to step inside that echo chamber of his wants and wishes. So he did.

With a slightly shaking hand, he pushed open the door. The lock immediately sprung open for him; no miracle needed. He could feel the energy running through the house, buzzing under every wooden beam he touched, under every piece of metal that pressed cold against his palm. Aziraphale knew that this sensation came from the wards meant to hold off the enemy, and his silly, all-too-human heart rejoiced to know that he did not count among those, not even when he refused to make amends. Not just that, he was _welcome_ here. It almost felt like the house was trying to guide him where it wanted him, but that was ridiculous, because houses didn’t do that kind of thing.

And yet, a soft “Where are you taking me?” slipped from Aziraphale’s lips as he found himself led up the stairs to a door that stood slightly ajar. He hesitated for a moment, wrapping his fingers carefully around the knob. With a fortifying smile on his lips, he pushed it open and peeked into the room behind it.

The curtains were drawn and only a few rays of light broke through the gaps between them and through the moth holes, painting shadows over the dark furniture. In the middle of the room stood a four-poster-bed, decked out with blankets against the cold that had begun to settle in the very walls of the house. Even from the door, they would seem like the outline of a sleeping figure to an outsider’s eye. Closest to Aziraphale was a dressing table, and he noticed a straight razor and an assortment of creams and hair products with half-closed lids, some of which had long been dried out, as though left behind in a hurry. Aziraphale knew what he would find in the centre of the room, and yet he inched closer on his tiptoes, with a beating heart in his chest. It didn’t usually do that, not when he had it under control.

The outline of Crowley’s red hair stood out even against the shadows of his pillow, slightly longer than Aziraphale remembered it. He was laying on his side, face buried in the downy feathers of his beddings. His torso was rising and falling gently, in a rhythm slower than human breath worked. For a moment, Aziraphale just stood there, wringing his hands and gazing at the sleeping demon. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself now. He’d seen Crowley, come to realise that he wasn’t only sleeping now but, judging by the state of his abode, had been sleeping for some time and probably didn’t intend to wake up for yet another while. Evidently, he was safe and had taken the necessary precautions to ensure that he could rest undisturbed. Perhaps Aziraphale should leave and let it be. And yet, he had been welcomed inside, even if it wasn’t through Crowley’s direct words, but through the exact same precautions that did not keep the angel out as they should have if he was unwelcome.

Aziraphale knew that Crowley had a tendency to sleep for a long time. Once, he’d missed one of their rendezvous because he had, on accident, slept for ten months instead of ten hours. And during the 14th century, when things had become too bleak even for the demon to take well to, Crowley had slept for over a decade. Those were only the incidents Aziraphale knew of, of course. He supposed it was a reaction to intensely displeasing or stressful situations on Crowley’s part, but they always had the exact opposite effect on Aziraphale, causing distress instead of avoiding it.

It couldn’t hurt if he remained here for a moment though, just to make sure that Crowley was not going to sleep fitfully, and that he was resting well. Perhaps he could even say a few words, in a hushed voice of course, so as not to wake Crowley, and ensure that he would dream of something nice. Not quite a blessing, but a belief that would come true.

Quietly, Aziraphale reached for the stool by the dressing table and set it down next to the bed. With fidgeting hands, he sat there for a while, trying to make sense of his thoughts. Words were a flurry within his head, breaking off their edges as they crashed into each other, slipping in and out of their complementing rifts like a clockwork on the verge of breaking. When two words fit together apparently seamlessly, he went looking for the next one, to string them together like a fine pearl necklace, but before he could tie a knot at the end, one of them fell and dropped to the floor, rendering all his efforts for nought. So he sat and contemplated.

After a few minutes had passed, he cleared his throat, having made up his mind.

“This isn’t going to go anywhere, is it? It would be better if I leave now,” he said, softly.

As though he’d heard him, Crowley suddenly rolled over, a slight frown on his face. Aziraphale had seen something like it all too often, when they’d spoken and disagreed with each other, or when Aziraphale had started on a thought and dropped it, but Crowley had wanted to _hear_. It almost seemed like that, this curious mixture of interest and indignation, and it changed something in his heart. It calmed him, made him feel almost at home in their age-old game of tug-of-war. And, strangely enough, the words started to flow.

“I didn’t mean to intrude on you,” he whispered. “And I shall be gone in a moment. If I’m honest, I don’t even know what lead me here, you see, I was thinking about you, back at the bridge – they’ve built it completely anew, would you imagine! – and then I found myself at your doorstep.”

A fraction of the frown seemed to fade from Crowley’s face. It encouraged Aziraphale to go on, to speak his mind more freely. Even if this was, perhaps, the only occasion for him to do so, the mere thought of it felt strangely liberating.

“I know that we didn’t exactly part on good terms, and some of the blame certainly is on me. I was in quite a tizzy when we last spoke. Why am I telling you this? of course you must remember. I don’t want to presume, nor overexaggerate my own importance, but I would understand if our argument has contributed to this, well, certainly rather long nap. It must be long, obviously, just look at the state of your lodgings, anyone would come to that conclusion.”

He halted for a moment, sorely tempted to reach out and touch the blanket, just to collect some of the dust on the tip of his finger, to prove his point. It was merely that, not the idea of touch itself that seemed tantalising, nor was it that deep-rooted desire for comfort. Aziraphale was an angel, he couldn’t desire comfort, not for himself – there was no reason to need it, was there? – nor for a demon, no matter who that demon was. And Crowley wouldn’t have wanted comfort either, now would he? Surely, he would have asked if he had wanted to be comforted after their argument.

Aziraphale cleared this throat. “Anyway, I only wanted to ensure that you’re all right. See it with my own eyes, so to speak.”

He hesitated for a moment, but there was something about Crowley’s expression that put him into a… strangely maudlin mood. The odd mixture of tension and peaceful calm that played out across his face spoke to him. Aziraphale had never seen him like that, not asleep, not soft, not vulnerable. No, that wasn’t true, was it? He’d seen him beaten down and weary, he’d seen him exhausted and worn, dozing off against a ship’s wooden planks. He’d seen him gentle and kind, but Aziraphale had grown good at denying himself those memories and the impressions they’d left behind. What remained, though, was the fact that he’d never seen him resting like this, within the safety and comfort of his own four walls. It made something warm bloom in Aziraphale’s chest, not entirely unlike the seedling of a flower that could never see the sun.

“I should apologise,” he said, and despite how hard it was for him to openly confess to that, he tried to make the best out of his attempt. “I should have trusted you. I am decidedly not saying that I should have given you what you asked for, but I should have listened. Instead, we have both said things we shouldn’t have; truly we did, Crowley. I’m not asking you to make amends, though. It’s your choice, really.”

All he would ask of him is to take back a single thing. Aziraphale had always wanted to be needed. He had thought himself needed; he was not, but he could live better with a lie. He’d never meant to offend when he had called this thread between them _fraternising_. Crowley must know that, mustn’t he? To fraternise, it must have meant something different back when the world was still younger and its pain had been less severe. The word bore _brother_ in its name, and hadn’t that been the greatest honour? To make someone else, no matter how wide the abyss that gaped between them and you, your brother?

“Do you really have someone ese? Because I don’t think you do. I think we’re both lost here, in a world that isn’t ours.”

He had to know, and yet he’d never dared to ask. The idea that they could be anything other than lonely seemed absurd to him; at least it did now, sitting by his bedside and mourning another seven lost years.

Crowley mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep and rolled onto his other side, the one closer to Aziraphale. A bit clumsily, he raised a hand to his brow and rubbed it over his forehead, as though he was trying to concentrate on an idea that was slowly slipping out of his grip. Suddenly, Aziraphale began to wonder. He wondered if Crowley could hear him, if that had changed the shift in his pattern of small movements. He wondered if the demon _dreamt_.

What must it be like to dream? Aziraphale had never had the opportunity to find out. Perhaps he could ask Crowley one day, when everything was – well, if not forgiven, then maybe forgotten.

“I wonder if we will be all right again,” he said softly. “We have mended every rift between us until this day, but you asked much of me, much more than I can give. You made me think impossible thoughts. I can’t bear them, especially not on my own.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. Why was this upsetting him so much? All he was doing was vocalising his concerns, his regrets, things he was used to living with and pondering by himself in the quiet of his bookshop, when the humans out there slept and his job for the day was done. It shouldn’t feel like a stab beneath the heart. It shouldn’t feel _cruel_ , and it shouldn’t make tears pool at the corners of his eyes. And above all, it shouldn’t make him question – not himself, not Heaven, not what this mess of a world truly was.

“I must confess, I think about you awfully often,” he muttered, before he could stop himself. And even though he hadn’t wanted to say it – no, that was wrong, he had _wanted_ to, he just hadn’t intended to do so – it felt like a heavy burden being taken off his shoulders. “Far more often than I should, really. I shouldn’t be thinking about you at all.”

But he does, he does, he does and it _pains_ him. It’s not just the way they parted, and it’s not just the fear that is invariably tied to the question about holy water. It’s everything that happened before that, too, and everything that will happen after, when Crowley’s awake and they’ve become friends again. And it’s five thousand years of friendship, and it’s eight hundred years of working side by side, learning the machinations of each other’s work and very nature, and it’s evenings at the bookshop, and it’s crepes in Paris, and it’s dimly lit boxes at the opera, and it’s hope and it’s trust and it’s that kiss on the bridge and it’s… _oh_.

Oh.

That never should have happened, should it? Perhaps it was this one, small, innocent thing that had Crowley asking for insurance. Or at least it could have been an innocent thing, if it weren’t for the undeniable fact of who and _what_ they were.

They’d met on Blackfriars Bridge in 1861, shortly before those clever humans had started the renovations. No wonder the realisation of his loss had hit him in that spot. They had talked there, throughout a misty afternoon and into a foggy night. Aziraphale couldn’t remember what they’d talked about. It didn’t matter, in the end; he always wanted their conversations to last just a little longer. They’d watched the humans pass on the bridge, hour upon hour, and whenever Aziraphale got a little too caught up in this kind of reverie, he began to feel almost like he belonged. He remembered that Crowley had told him about some assignment or another before they parted, and when he’d told him to be careful, he’d reached out and taken Crowley’s arm to give it an encouraging squeeze. From there, it took only a little more courage – no, foolishness – no, _courageous idiocy_ – to lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. A soft good-bye that had shocked them both. It wasn’t the done thing, not anymore among humans, and it most certainly had never been an appropriate greeting in Heaven either. It remained what it was, bright as daylight, a sign of affection.

Perhaps, indeed, it called for insurance, to know that there was more than a small exchange of Good and Evil between your designated opposite and yourself. He had managed not to think about it for a while, maybe because the bridge had been torn away, in the literal sense of the phrase.

“That’s all,” he said after another moment of silence, and he could almost have sworn that he meant it.

He’d grown so good at lying to himself, but sometimes it didn’t quite suffice. _That’s all_ truly wasn’t quite correct. _That’s all I ever do_ would have been a bit closer to the truth; for, albeit exaggerated, it reflected better what he felt, beneath all sense of reason and duty. When you looked at the blank truth, stripped to the bone, it all boiled down to one simple fact: Aziraphale wasn’t very good at _not_ feeling things.

With a careful hand, he wiped at the tears that had begun to trickle down his cheeks without his knowledge or permission. Silly corporation of his, it tended to get upset at the most inappropriate things. Sometimes Aziraphale wished that he could be more indifferent and colder, but that took an energy he couldn’t muster at the end of most days. He kept giving in.

“I am lost without you, dear,” he whispered, reaching out as far as he dared, which was to the edge of Crowley’s dust-specked blanket. “Please forgive me for being a silly old fool.”

Crowley shifted once again, seemingly more restless than before. He tossed his head to the side and rolled halfway onto his back, hands skimming over the covers as though he was searching for something to grasp. Aziraphale hoped that he hadn’t drifted into a nightmare, seeing how tense his expression had become.

He mumbled a few calming noises he’d heard humans utter towards their restless children, words he’d known since the dawn of time. With a quick movement of his hand, the dust disappeared from the bed and the pillows became just a little softer than they’d known themselves to be. Finally, after a moment’s hesitation, he leant over and reached out to gently touch Crowley’s forehead.

“Sleep well, my dear. Don’t worry, and dream of what makes you content.”

It was barely a miracle, and yet it must have had its effect on Crowley, for the demon wrinkled his nose and shivered lightly under the wave of the angelic miracle. Aziraphale gently brushed back the hair that fell onto Crowley’s forehead, smoothing it out and distracting him from the uncomfortable tingling those small blessings left behind. He’d grown good at picking up the gestures humans used to make each other less uneasy, and he hoped that they worked for beings like Crowley and him, too. And although it seemed to work rather well, Aziraphale felt a certain loss at having to break their point of contact.

Seven years. Seven years had passed without seeing Crowley, and Aziraphale had missed him so dearly, much more than he’d considered possible in such a short frame of time. He was so much more than a demon, an accomplice, or someone to fraternise with. A steady constant, like the seven days of the week. Like the seven hills Rome had rested on when he’d first been there, a foundation to build eternity on. Like the seven virtues that called for reward, bringing out the best even in an unsuspecting fool, like the seven deadly sins that demanded punishment. He was all that, and so much more. Aziraphale had grown to rely on him, to count on him, to love him.

He brushed through the sleeping demon’s hair once more, smiling gently as he felt the sleep-induced warmth of his corporation.

“You must know that I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t hide it if I tried, not from you. I’m certain you’ve noticed it, just like I have grown to know how much you care.”

It was true. Aziraphale had no reason to lie, not here, not now. Not as he wished Crowley good dreams, not as he withdrew his hand, not as he took a deep breath to steady himself. Sorting out emotions always took a toll on him, but speaking them even more so. He couldn’t imagine the exhaustion it would bring if he could, one day, speak them to Crowley’s face and have them understood, out in the open between the two of them.

“Please keep me in mind when you wake, dear. Tell me when you’re ready to mend things between us.”

Aziraphale nodded to himself and quietly stood up. He brushed the dust off his coattails before he returned the stool to the dressing table, hesitating for only a moment to get one last look at Crowley, who now smiled very lightly in his sleep.

“You know where you’ll find me. I’m not going anywhere,” he said into the silence of the room, and when no response came, he turned to leave, shutting the door softly behind himself.

Aziraphale didn’t know, of course, that it would take several more decades until he would next speak to Crowley, but the loneliness became easier to bear after he’d stepped out into the streets. The world was changing so rapidly around them that he got distracted from his sadness, even though it isolated him even more. His evenings passed in silence until, one day, he saw a card in a window, advertising a gentlemen’s club where he learnt a dance and made some acquaintances, but it was never the same as it used to be at the beginning of the century, when he’d run into Crowley over and over again, to have dinner or to see a play or just to talk. The next time they met, it would be on opposing sides of a war, in a world that had grown so terribly different from what they were used to experiencing.

But that is the subject of a different story.

Crowley slept well for a while. The strange dreams that tended to plague him when he’d gone to sleep upset started to fade, slowly being replaced by something else. Bit by bit, he relived beautiful memories, snippets of moments that had made him smile, soothing and precious. And when Crowley woke, he could have sworn that someone had been there, that someone had sat down next to him and wrapped him in a blanket of fine-threaded love. It was threadbare by then, but he clung to it, believing.


End file.
